Chapter 3 - The Dinner Table Execution
"Keep her stable, Rossi," Roman ordered, releasing Claire's hand only after
feeling a faint, stubborn pulse return to her wrist. "If she takes a turn, call
me directly. Dante, stay at her door. Gun drawn." "Understood, boss."
Roman walked down the grand staircase of DeLuca House with slow, measured steps.
He hadn't put on a fresh jacket. His white dress shirt was damp from snow and
Claire's melted ice, unbuttoned at the throat, his sleeves rolled up to his
forearms. He carried no weapon in his hands, but the aura radiating from him
caused the two security guards at the dining room doors to stand rigid, their
breath catching. Inside the dining room, the laughter was loud. Arthur
Mercer—Vivian’s father, a silver-haired real estate mogul whose debts to the
DeLuca organization were the only reason his company still existed—was holding
court at the head of the long mahogany table. "A remarkable vintage, truly,"
Arthur was saying, swirling a cabernet in his glass. "My daughter has always had
impeccable taste. Roman is a fortunate man." Vivian sat beside him, smiling
tightly, though her knuckles were white against the stem of her glass.
The heavy double doors swung open with a muffled thud. Roman entered. The room
fell silent in an instant. The laughter died in the throats of thirty
influential guests. Roman didn't smile. He walked directly to the head of the
table, stopping behind Arthur Mercer's chair. "Roman, my boy!" Arthur chuckled,
though his eyes darted nervously to Roman's disheveled shirt. "We were wondering
where the host had disappeared to! We're ready for the port and cigars."
Roman reached out, took Arthur's crystal wineglass, and poured the dark red
liquid slowly onto the pristine white linen tablecloth. The crimson pool spread
toward Arthur’s silk lapel. Arthur jumped back, knocking his chair. "What in
God's name—" "One hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars," Roman said, his
voice quiet, resonance carrying to every corner of the vast room. Vivian froze.
"Pardon?" Arthur stammered, dabbing at his sleeve with a napkin. "That was the
debt Claire Bennett’s late father owed," Roman continued, looking directly at
Vivian. "A predatory loan disguised under three dummy corporations registered in
Delaware. Corporations owned by Mercer Holdings." Vivian’s face lost all its
color. "Roman, I don't know what lies that girl told you—" "She didn't tell me
anything," Roman interrupted, leaning forward and resting his hands on the back
of Arthur's chair. "She didn't have to. I had my financial team audit your
personal offshore accounts thirty minutes ago while my maid was dying in the
snow."
A collective murmur of shock rippled through the guests. "You leveraged a sick
girl's medical care to torment an innocent woman under my roof," Roman
whispered, his dark eyes locking onto Vivian with terrifying clarity. "You
chained the carriage house doors from the outside. You disabled my cameras. You
thought a blizzard would cover a murder." "It was an accident!" Vivian shrieked,
jumping to her feet, dropping the facade of high-society elegance. "She was a
clumsy maid! She got lost! You're accusing your future wife in front of our
families for a nobody who scrubs your floors?!" Roman reached into his pocket,
pulled out the heavy diamond engagement ring Vivian had worn until that morning,
and dropped it into her half-full champagne glass. Clink. "The engagement is
over," Roman said. "The Mercer family debt is called due tonight. Every
property, every asset, every account. By morning, Arthur, you won't own the
shoes on your feet."
May you like
Arthur Mercer began to choke on his breath, reaching for his daughter's arm.
"Roman, please! Let us speak in private! You don't understand the pressures—"
"Get out of my house," Roman commanded. "All of you. Dinner is finished." The
guests scrambled for the exits, practically trampling each other in their hurry
to escape the wrath of Roman DeLuca.
As the room cleared, Roman’s phone buzzed in his palm. It wasn't Dante. It was
Claire’s cheap, cracked prepaid phone, which Roman had retrieved from her coat
pocket. A new text message appeared on the illuminated screen: Unknown Number:
'The storm won't save her, Mercer. If the girl survived the cold, our boys are
already inside the east gate to finish the job. DeLuca's empire falls tonight.'
